Broken Summer
by lousiemcdoogle
Summary: "There would be no unexpected sound of her key in the lock. No sound of stilettos across the floorboards. No laughing greeting or warm embrace or welcoming kiss. Not any more." -My entry for the 2013 Castle Hiatus Ficathon
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: My entry for the 2013 Castle Hiatus Ficathon. I was super pumped when the idea of a Ficathon was first suggested, and got even more excited when I saw which authors were talking about entering. This is my humble shot at it, because ideas like the Ficathon need to be encouraged and it's my way of supporting it.**

**My purpose in writing this particular story is to see if I can. There are a number of excellent angsty fics out there at the moment, and to be honest, I'm sorry to be throwing another one out there, especially considering how much I've been ranting on Twitter against breakup fics- so please forgive my hypocrisy, and read anyway :-) **

**I need to write this for me. I need to know if I can do it. I struggle to let characters hurt- I want to fix them right away, and I need to grow beyond that in my writing. I'm also working through a burnout-related depression right now, so I'm considering this to be part of my therapy in working through that. Your thoughts and feedback will be welcome as always. **

**This story will be pretty well exclusively told from Castle's perspective. My one request is that you go easy on Kate- Castle may not know what's going on with her, but I do, so please be nice to her in your reviews. It takes place several weeks after Squab and the Quail, and is AU- it assumes that the job offer and proposal in Human Factor and Watershed didn't happen. This will get angsty, but know that I can't live with an unhappy ending. Rest assured that all will be ok, eventually (the aim is 50,000 words, after all) **

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Castle belongs to the genius that is Andrew Marlowe, and also to ABC. I play with them because I'm a wee bit addicted to these awesomely written, beautifully portrayed characters, and I need more of them :-)**

* * *

He shut the door to the loft quietly.

Dropped his keys in the bowl by the door.

Shrugged off his coat and hung it in the closet.

Simple things. Automatic things. Things his body knew how to do without prompting.

He needed to do those things, because his brain was on complete shut down.

He moved through the loft without taking anything in. There was nothing to take in. Martha had been spending less and less time at home recently now that Alexis was no longer there and he was preoccupied with... and Alexis was snowed under with assignments, had told him just last weekend that for the next couple of weeks she probably wouldn't have time to breathe let alone come visit.

And it wasn't like anyone else was going to be here. Not after today.

There would be no unexpected sound of her key in the lock. No sound of stilettos across the floorboards. No laughing greeting or warm embrace or welcoming kiss. Not any more.

He sat heavily in his desk chair, because he couldn't bring himself to face his room. Not yet. He knew the bed was still unmade, the sheets left in a tangled heap. Her scent was still lingering in the pillows, in the bathroom, in his heart.

The day had started so well- he thought so, at least. Yes, there had been signs of tension lately. Yes, a lot of things hadn't been perfect. He hadn't been perfect. She always was. But he had woken with her cuddled into his side, nose burrowing into his shoulder, and he had been content. Confident. Whatever this strange phase was that they were in, it would pass. He had been sure of that this morning.

Yet here he was at 7:45 pm, with his confidence and hope shattered, spread about like sharp sharps, splintered throughout his home. His heart. There was no way to find all the pieces. No way to put them back together. They were scattered far and wide, shrapnel that flung pieces so far and wide and deep that there could be no recovery. He was bleeding, dying from the already festering wounds that, though unseen, would surely result in his demise.

Now that he looked back over the morning, over the past several weeks, he could so clearly see the signs. Why couldn't he see it at the time? Was he really so blind, so wrapped up in his own perfect world, that he had failed the very person who made his world so beautiful?

Take this morning, for example. He had reached over and tucked a stray strand of hair away as she woke. Now that he thought about it, that sweet smile she had answered the gesture with had been chased away almost immediately by the tiniest of frowns. At the time, he thought it was the case, the reality of daylight settling in. Now he wasn't so sure.

She had taken one look at the bedside clock and given a small yelp, flying out of bed and into the bathroom. The door had been firmly locked by the time he had struggled to sit up.

He had looked at the time. They usually snuggled for another half hour. It was early.

Pushing the covers aside, he ambled into the kitchen to coax the coffee machine to life a little early. She was sometimes like this in the middle of a case, focused and wanting to be at work for as long as was needed to find the bad guy. They were in the middle of a twisty one, too. He should have known she would want to be up and ready to go.

He hadn't realized in just what way, though.

In no time at all, she was flying past him, a hurried "No time for coffee this morning, Castle!" thrown over her shoulder. He stood there for a full minute after she was gone, still clad in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair sticking out at odd angles from sleep, her coffee held out towards the door as if she would come back for it any second now.

Only, she didn't.

He had tipped the liquid down the sink. His own, too. It didn't seem right for him to enjoy a caffeine kick when she wasn't. Making his way back to his room, he had gone about his usual routine of getting ready for the day, taking his time so that he would arrive sufficiently later than his girlfriend. Staggered arrival times was one of her rules, even now that Gates knew about them, and even though for a while there she had seemed more and more willing to break as many of the rules as she could, lately she seemed to be going back to them. He had followed her lead, of course. When someone like Kate Beckett tells you to jump, you don't stop and ask how high. If she's willing to be with you, share her bed and her life with you, you don't question her little hangups about workplace etiquette.

Maybe the fact that she had gone back to her hangups should have been another warning sign.

He had stopped by the coffee shop on the way in, instead. Made sure to get her favorite in the biggest size possible. Hadn't touched his own, because he secretly liked the idea of them having their morning coffee together.

Rounding the corner of the bullpen, he had stopped short. She was already immersed in her work, didn't even so much as glance up at him.

On her desk was a takeout coffee cup identical to the one in his hand.

Recovering, he had stepped forwards, pausing by the desk.

"Hey," he greeted her, admiring the shine of her hair, the sharp jut of her cheekbone.

"Hi, Castle," she replied. Her tone was distracted, a little annoyed. He placed her coffee in front of her with a flourish.

She barely looked at it, just kind of glanced up fleetingly, a slight frown creasing the space between her eyebrows. He wanted to kiss it away. He wanted her to smile, to take the coffee from his hand instead of from the desk, to brush her fingers over his and let them linger. To take a sip and let the relief of the caffeine fill her, and for her to give him that little knowing smile as she hummed in contentment. He wanted them to be home at the loft still, so he could be free to touch that smile, to taste that first sip against her tongue.

He did not want to be ignored. He did not want her getting her own coffee.

He glanced around, taking in the hustle and bustle of the bull pen, before gingerly seating himself on the edge of his chair. Taking a deep breath, he contorted his face until it resembled a smile.

"I thought you said you didn't have time for coffee this morning," he almost managed to not sound hurt. Almost.

"Just trying to change things up, Castle," she replied without looking up.

Silence stretched between them for a while, an awkward, ugly thing, unwelcome as it was unusual. He couldn't remember the last time things were awkward between them. Maybe that should have been another sign. She didn't even seem to notice, though, her pen flying through the reports.

She put her pen down, glared at him. "Castle, I'm trying to work here. Stop staring at me."

His mouth dropped open. He couldn't remember the last time she had snipped at him in public like that. As a joke, yes, but it had been years since she really meant it. "B-But I always stare at you while you work. That's what I do here. I thought you liked it."

She had sighed then, her annoyance dropping away and leaving only a sadness he didn't understand. "That's the problem, isn't it? We're just doing what we've always done. We have been for so long now."

With the magic of hindsight, he should have noticed this one glaring clue before it was too late. He didn't, though, even though now he thought of it, it wasn't the first time she'd tried to have that conversation with him.

What was he meant to say, though? That he was scared of that conversation? That he was scared he would scare her off with talk of marriage and babies and forever? That he was petrified she would wake up one morning and realize that he wasn't the man he pretended to be? That she was way to good for him. He was meant to tell her all of that?

Rick Castle wasn't scared of traditional things. Well... ok, yes, he was, but... point is, the things he truly feared ran much deeper than that. And one of his biggest fears was that if he ever truly put his everything into something, he might fail. Dementedly, he was sometimes even more afraid of success. Success meant people had expectations, and expectations meant letting people down, and if he let people down, they wouldn't like him any more, and that hurt. And things that hurt... hurt. They caused pain. And pain is horrible, and should be avoided at all costs.

So he avoided the conversations. Was it right, or smart, or brave? No. And he knew it, felt the failure twist in his gut, the knowledge of it weighing him down, making him more defensive, more inclined to shy away.

The day had continued much the same. He had helped with the case where he could, sat and tried to be quiet when he couldn't. It wasn't until shortly after lunch and the four of them were going through the victim's financials in the conference room that Castle had an idea.

"What if the step-daughter knew about the money?" he asked suddenly.

"Our vic adored her step-daughter. She would have given her anything she asked for in the blink of an eye," Beckett argued back. "The husband, on the other hand, or the sister- they both knew she had more stashed away than she was letting on."

They had argued back and forth, throwing theories around. Ryan and Esposito paused in their work to watch with growing interest, enjoying the entertainment.

"I still think I'm right," Castle replied smugly at one point, and it was then that the entire atmosphere of the room changed in a heartbeat.

Kate had narrowed her eyes at him. Glared. When she spoke, her voice was so icy he felt like he'd been dropped in liquid nitrogen.

"Of course you do."

He'd exchanged a puzzled look with the boys. "Kate...?" he began hesitantly, taking a step towards her, but she had held up her hands to stop him, her eyes dropping away.

"Castle, this isn't working. Maybe you should go."

His whole body had jerked. He had actually felt the blood run from his face, leaving a pale, lifeless version of himself. Kate Beckett's words had that kind of power over him.

"Are you talking about the case, or about-" he indicated vaguely between the pair of them, thankful that it was just them and the boys there.

She had been silent for a long moment, sucking in the hollow of her cheek like she did when she was making up her mind about something and she wasn't happy with either option.

Finally, finally, she met his eyes once more. She was wearing her detective mask now- brave, determined, self-assured, but he could see the darkness of grief swirling in the depths of her eyes.

_Please, __Kate, __no. __No, __love!_

"I'll call you, all right?" she had lifted her chin slightly at the end, a challenging gesture to let him know that her word choice had been deliberate.

It threw his mind into chaos, even as his body stayed where he was, mouth hanging open at her, unable to comprehend that she was really doing this here, now, in front of the boys. It was all he could do not to sob where he stood, to beg and plead and cry out for her to change her mind. Her words conjured up images of two summers ago. Of bullets and confessions and leaving her in the saving arms of Dr. Motorcycle Boy. Of a whole summer of staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring. Of hoping against hope that she would call him, that she was still alive, still safe.

Her words made him think of dead leads and hours of endless frustration. Of chasing a ghost with the boys. Of being kicked out of the precinct by Gates practically the moment she walked in the door. Of the final edits of _Heat __Rises_, of rewriting that ending. Of pitying stares from his mother and daughter. Of emptiness. Of an endless summer of heartache and unanswered questions.

They had talked about this since then. She knew now what her words had done to him, just as he understood now the brokenness from whence they came. And that made her word choice hurt even more. Because he knew that it was deliberate. He knew that she knew. And yet she still did it. She used words most calculated to hurt him _on __purpose_.

No matter how many arguments they'd had, no matter how much he bickered or she glared, or how heated things got, things had never gotten deliberately mean.

It had taken him several moments to collect himself. To collect the salvageable pieces of himself.

The few remaining pieces of his heart, he left with her.

Silently, with the weighty stares of three detectives on him, he shuffled out of the room, picked up the coat hung carelessly over the back of the chair, and crossed the bustling bull pen, and hit the button for the elevator.

The last glimpse he got of her, right before the doors closed, she was running her hand through her hair, a file in hand, as Detective Beckett got back to work.

* * *

The loft was dark; silent save the hum of the refrigerator. He still sat at his desk chair, staring into nothing, trying to wrap his brain around what had happened. On some level, he knew he should eat or drink or go to bed, but he just... couldn't. His whole body was numb, and mundane things like food and sleep just didn't appeal. Nothing did. Not when there was a chasm inside of him, a gaping hole where his insides no longer existed. At one point, he thought briefly of whiskey, of numbing the pain the old fashioned way, but he couldn't. Drinking wouldn't help. In fact, all it would do was remind him of her father, and that would make him think of her, and that wouldn't be forgetting anything.

So he sat there, lost in the void of his mind, reliving the pain of the day. Going over the past weeks and months, finding the jagged edges he'd missed, the places where they had begun to fray and come apart- his own personal nightmare becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.

He hadn't come straight back to his apartment when he'd been kicked out of the precinct. He couldn't. The idea of being trapped inside a confined space with only his thoughts to torture him... he couldn't do it.

He had wandered the streets instead, allowing his body to flow with the foot traffic of Manhattan while his mind drifted over his morning. He wasn't sure how long he walked or how far he went, but when he finally came too, he was standing across the road from her apartment building, staring up at her window- even though he knew she was still at the precinct. The sun had shifted, and though he didn't bother to look at his watch, he knew a considerable amount of time had passed- a couple of hours, maybe.

He crossed the road, used his key to enter her building, took the clunky, wheezing elevator up to her floor. At her door, he paused. He wasn't sure he should go in. Was that too invasive? But if he left, it would mean giving up on them, and that was unbearable.

Sighing deeply, he turned so his back was against the door, and slid down until he was seated.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At one point, his legs began to fall asleep, so he stood and paced the hallway for a while, until the grumpy guy from 3G came past and scowled at him. He went back to sitting then.

It was well after 6 by the time the elevator doors opened and she stepped out, faltering when she saw him sprawled in front of her door.

He had scrambled up when he caught sight of her, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of her beauty, his heart stuttering at her weariness.

"Castle, what are you doing?" she was tired, disappointed by his presence. He could hear it in his voice.

"I wanted to see you," he knew he sounded pathetic, needy, and more than a little petulant.

She pressed her mouth together into a thin line, clearly not impressed. "What are you doing outside my door?"

His eyes dropped under her raised eyebrows, and he shuffled like a schoolboy. "I wasn't sure I was welcome inside," he confessed.

She sighed deeply. "I told you I'd call," she didn't deny his words.

He took half a step closer. "We both know you weren't going to. I'm not running from this, Kate. Not until you kick me out in as many words."

She closed her eyes as if in pain. He never, ever wanted to cause her pain. "We're not having this conversation in the hallway, Castle."

"Does that mean I can come in?" he asked, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

She didn't answer, simply pushed past him and inserting her key in the lock. She didn't shut the door behind her. That was invitation enough for him.

Coming in behind her, he shut the door gently and stood awkwardly in the entryway, watching her kick off her heels and get a glass of water.

"It was the step-daughter, by the way," she said casually, out of the blue. He blinked, his mind scrambling to connect her words to anything that might make sense, before he remembered the beginning of their argument at the precinct.

The case.

"The step-daughter? But I thought they had a great relationship...?" he began, stopping short when he saw her glare.

"Castle, don't gloat. Please. Not tonight," she ran a hand through her hair.

He sighed. "I wasn't gloating. I was just... Look, I'm pleased you closed the case. But Kate, that's not why I'm here."

She placed her glass on the counter with more force than necessary. "Then why are you here, Castle?"

He retreated a couple of steps. "I thought we should talk. You know, about what happened this afternoon. All of today, really. The last couple of weeks. What's been going on with you?"

Her eyes narrowed, flashed with something he hadn't seen before- or maybe he just hadn't been paying attention. Again.

"You want to talk now? Really, Castle?"

"W-What do you mean?" he had asked, bewildered.

She sighed, braced her hands against the counter top, hanging her head as if gathering strength. "I've been trying to talk to you about this for a month, Castle. I've brought it up again and again, and you haven't even noticed," she lifted her head, looked at him directly. "I wanted to know if this was it? If this is all this is going to be- if you were ready to move forward together? Do you want more than what we have, Castle? Because to me, you've been doing the opposite. You don't talk to me about anything important, and you change the subject when I try. You don't light up when you look at me the way you used to. I just- I just want to know where this is going," she pleaded with him.

He didn't know what to say. Images of the future ran before his eyes, taunting him- Kate in a white dress, floating up the aisle on her father's arm; a swollen belly and a radiant smile; a tiny person cradled on his shoulder as she slipped her arms around them both from behind; little footsteps running into their room and leaping on them on his birthday; grandchildren and gray hair and forever.

Then came their foes, rising up and destroying the happy pictures. Kate with one foot out the door of every relationship she had ever been in; Kate lying to him about remembering; Kate being skittish and easily overwhelmed by any talk of permanence; Kate's look of disgust on that day in the future when she finds out he isn't everything he pretends to be; Kate's joy when she meets someone truly worthy of her, and she leaves without a backwards glance.

The images had only been interrupted by her sigh. "You don't have an answer, do you? You've crossed me off your bucket list, and now you're onto the next thing."

That snapped him out of it, like a slap in the face. "How can you say that?" he demanded.

"Because you haven't said anything, Castle! You haven't said a thing! What else am I meant to believe?" she shot back.

"But-but I love you!" he began, but she shook her head, effectively silencing him. When she spoke it was with a gentleness that hurt more than if she had screamed at him.

"You say that, but you don't act like it any more. Ever since Alexis you've been pulling away from me. I've felt you do it. I've tried fighting for this, Castle, but I can't fight alone anymore."

A fist of ice clutched his heart. "What are you saying, exactly?" he asked quietly. She looked away for a long moment, gathering herself.

"I love you, Castle, more than I've ever thought it would be possible to love someone. You know that- or at least I hope you do. But if this relationship isn't going anywhere, then maybe we should end it now before it causes any more pain," she said quietly.

He felt winded. All the air in his lungs had wooshed out at her words, and he couldn't- he couldn't get any oxygen back in. "K-Kate...?" he stuttered.

She turned away.

"I'm sorry, Castle. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she whispered, using the same heartbreaking words to end their relationship as she had used a year ago to begin it.

He had closed his eyes, clamped his mouth shut to silence the scream of anguish in his soul that threatened to erupt and drown them both. Tears burned, leaking out under his eyelids and falling inelegantly from his chin.

She didn't look at him, so she never knew. Or maybe she did. Kate Beckett was nothing if not extraordinary.

"Go home, Castle," she said in a strangled whisper.

He opened his eyes then, and his mouth, too. Took a step towards her, an honest-to-God whimper dying in the back of his throat when she shook her head, moved away from him.

Her bedroom door shut behind her.

He stayed where he was for a long time, hoping that she would come out, that they could have that conversation over again, only this time with words on his part. It was too late for that now, though. His dreams came true, he had once bragged to her. Between Alexis being kidnapped a few months back, and now today, his nightmares did, too, apparently.

When he realized he was still in her kitchen- in his _ex-girlfriend's_ kitchen- he forced himself to move. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his keyring, tried not to think about anything as he removed her door key and set it on the bench. Then it was a simple case of a scant half dozen steps back to her door, a final long glance around the apartment he had grown to love as a second home, before shutting the door behind him for the last time.

* * *

It wasn't quite 2 am yet when he finally stood from his desk chair, so tired suddenly that it didn't matter that he was going to bed alone. He removed his shirt and pants, changing into sweats and a t-shirt, and went to the bathroom.

He stared at his reflection uncomprehendingly as he brushed his teeth. He couldn't really bring himself to care about dental hygiene right now, but the physical action provided him with something to do. He looked old. Haggard. The harsh yellow light seemed to emphasize the bags under his eyes, the flesh around his cheeks.

His eyes looked dead. The dancing blue tonight had turned to granite. Like a tombstone, he thought humorlessly.

What life was there without Kate Beckett?

Turning back to the bedroom, he paused in the open doorway, light from the bathroom behind him spilling out and illuminating the room.

A montage played on the screen of his mind, beginning with that night a year ago when she had led him in here from the front door, her fingers like ice, trembling with cold and desire. If he closed his eyes, he could relive every touch, every taste. The way she surged up into him, eyes naked and wanting, body fluid and malleable around his. He could hear her breathless laugh as he discovered just where and how to touch her, to make her rise up and fall apart.

His eyes burned and his head pounded. He needed to go to bed. Maybe he could convince himself that it was just for tonight? That it was just like any of the other occasional nights they spent apart these days, when a case ran too late and clashed with a meeting or a family dinner with Alexis.

Crossing to the bed, he flipped on the lamp and surveyed the tangle of sheets. Any other night, he would have been tempted to change them as they were already in disarray- but not tonight. It might be gross and smelly and a hundred other bad things right now, but those sheets still had her scent on them, and he wasn't changing them until the lingering waft of cherries permeated them no more. Setting to work, he remade the bed carefully, brushing out every wrinkle, stalling for as long as he could. It wasn't until he was tucking in the sheets on her side that he noticed the contents of the bedside table.

She had placed a photo of the pair of them from their ill-fated ski trip to Aspen there- the one that got taken before his accident. He was behind her, his hands possessively draped around her waist, tugging her into him. She was laughing up at him as he beamed for the camera. She had been teasing him about something- he couldn't even remember what now- but he remembered the music of her laughter, the way it danced around him, lifting his heart and releasing it to fly free.

Beside the photo was a small pile of bobby pins, a novel from his abundant shelves, a bottle of lotion. He sat heavily, undoing all of his careful work in creating a wrinkle free sleeping environment, and reached for the lotion, popping the lid and breathing it in. He had always hated the bottle- the snap of the plastic opening and shutting had always sounded like gunshots reverberating around the room. She had always rolled her eyes at him when he complained, threatening him with real gunshots if he didn't stop. A little grin would always plays around the corner of her lips when she said it, though- a little grin he had always treated as an invitation to swoop in and taste.

The lotion smelled of late nights chatting over details of cases. Of reading by lamplight, separately but together. Of lingering good night kisses that sometimes ended in snuggling down to sleep curled in to one another, and sometimes ended in keeping each other awake long into the night. He squeezed out a tiny amount- just enough to smell- and rubbed it into his hands. He then reached for the photo, cradling the frame in his hands as he gazed upon her smile, taking in every detail of her, adding more from his store of memories. He didn't want to forget a thing about her. He couldn't.

He stood slowly, shuffled around the bed to his side. He didn't want to sleep on hers, just in case. A whispered voice of optimism in his mind reminded him she still had a key. It wouldn't be the first time she had crawled into his bed in the middle of the night, so often happier to spend what little time she had to sleep with him rather than separated from him. He knew it was ridiculous to hope, but he couldn't help it. He needed it to get through the night.

It took him a long time to get comfortable. It wasn't until he reached for her pillow and crushed it to his chest, right under his nose so her scent could surround him that he finally gave up wriggling. Gave up fighting. Gave up pretending that he wasn't bottling the ache inside his chest, now that his heart was in splinters.

It was only then that he finally faced the reality that this was his first night of many alone in this bed again, because Kate Beckett was no longer his. The stinging behind his eyes that he had managed to fight off earlier came back with a vengeance as his emotions caught up with him. His shoulders shook as a heaving sob broke free, followed by another and another and another. The storm of tears ran awkwardly off his nose, down his cheek, soaking the pillowing beneath him, but he didn't care. He couldn't. Not when his heart and his hopes were shattered, ground to dust and tossed in the wind.

Kate Beckett was no longer his. He had lost her.

The thought revolved around his mind, again and again, like a song on repeat.

And so it was that Richard Castle cried himself to sleep.

* * *

_Thoughts?_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: ****HUGE ****thank ****you ****to ****dtrekker ****for ****the ****amazing ****cover ****art! This chapter is dedicated to ****BerkieLynn (go read her Ficathon story, too!) who took the time to talk me out of a hole, and to The-KLF, who offered to help, too. You Twitter crowd are the bestest ever!  
**

* * *

He woke with a pounding headache, his entire body feeling thick and heavy.

At first he couldn't remember why.

It was only when he tried to bury deeper into his pillow and felt an unusual lump under his chest that he remembered he had fallen asleep hugging Kate's pillow.

He was hugging Kate's pillow because he and Kate were no longer together.

There would be no "good morning" kisses over coffee, no smile at the precinct. No cheerful greeting to the boys or any of his other acquaintances there, either. He wouldn't be welcome back. Not that he could face her and keep his dignity. In his current frame of mind he would end up on his knees by her desk, begging and pleading for her to take him back.

To be honest, though, he didn't care much for his dignity. But he knew her, knew she would be embarrassed by the scene. God knows he has caused her more than enough embarrassment in their time together. He knows how much she hates the spotlight, despises the gossip mill at the precinct. The whispers and looks she would be on the receiving end of would be bad enough once people noticed he wasn't coming in any more.

He rolled onto his back, stared up at the ceiling. The weight of the previous day pressed down on him, sinking him further into the mattress. There was no point in getting out of bed, he realized. He had nothing to get out of bed for. He had thought of his days down at the precinct as his work for so long now, the idea of days and weeks and months stretching ahead of him without it was almost unthinkable. He felt like he would truly grieve for his time there, if he had any grief to spare.

He didn't.

He'd lost Kate.

Rolling his head to the side, he spotted his phone on his night stand. He reached for it, hating himself for hoping there might be something from her. His heart plummeted all over again when he saw that there was nothing.

Maybe he should call her? They'd had fights before, and the make-up sex had been downright fantastic. But the fights hadn't been like this one.

This one had felt final.

Send her a text message, maybe? Ooh, or an email? He would have as high a word count as he desired if he emailed her.

Problem was, she could just as easily delete it when she received it.

He dropped the phone back on the bedside table. Rolling onto his side, he lay there, unwilling to get up or move or do anything. What could he do? There was nothing. There was no getting her back. Once Kate Beckett's mind was made up, there was no changing it. And it wasn't like the other times he'd been kicked out of the precinct. He couldn't go back, weasel his way back in again. Not this time. Hell, he couldn't even do what he'd done when he'd thought she had lied to him, and keep coming to the precinct for the victims, for the good of the work. Not this time.

He was in far too deep to attempt the "love is a switch" thing. Been there, failed at that, too.

Just like he'd failed her.

Even if he tried laying it all out for her, bought her a ring and spoke of forever- it was too late now. She would never accept it, would never truly believe that he hadn't just given her his words out of desperation, even if he meant every one of them to his last and final breath.

He had failed them.

Save short trips to the bathroom and occasionally grabbing something to eat or drink when his stomach could no longer be ignored- it all tasted like cardboard, anyway- he stayed in bed that day, eventually falling asleep again.

There was nothing else to do.

* * *

"_Richard?_"

In spite of thousands of dollars spent on sound proofing the apartment, Martha's voice echoed through the loft. Sound proofing was no match for the woman trained to project her voice to hundreds of people without a microphone.

Castle grunted, turned his face into his pillow a little more, debating whether or not to pretend to be asleep. It was mid afternoon, judging by the sunlight streaming through the window. He had woken maybe an hour ago, but still hadn't felt any compulsion to get up.

There was the briefest _rat-a-tat_ on the door before it opened, and his mother's head poked through. Seeing him in bed with open eyes, she sighed, coming into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Darling, what's wrong? Are you ill?" she asked gently.

He shook his head, his throat closing over. He hadn't even considered yet that he would have to tell people. That he would have to find words to say that he and Kate... that he and Kate were no longer... That he and Kate weren't...

How could he find words to tell his mother that the only woman he had ever been in a relationship with that she actually got along with- even with Kyra, things hadn't always been smooth sailing- the only woman he was ever going to be in love with ever again- how could he find words to tell his mother that it was over? That it was done?

He stared up at her helplessly, blue eyes beseeching her to understand without him having to say the words. Martha pursed her lips, trying to solve the mystery before her.

"Is it Kate? Is she all right?" she asked worriedly.

His eyes slammed shut at the mention of her name. "I don't know," he croaked out, voice rasping from having not been used all day.

"You fought," Martha surmised.

He swallowed, trying to keep his emotions in check.

"Did you apologise?" his mother pushed.

He wanted to yell at her to leave him be. Take her to task for automatically assuming he was in the wrong. He wanted to slam the door and throw the picture frame from the other side of the bed across the room, shatter the glass, shred the smiling, so in love faces mocking him.

A tear escaped in spite of his efforts to hold it back, slipping out from under his clenched eyelid, sliding sideways down his temple and splashing in his ear. It felt gross, but he didn't try to wipe it away.

"Oh, darling. You broke up?" she guessed, reaching out and gently cupping his cheek.

His eyes opened, drowning blue pools swimming in a sea of barely contained tears, his anguish answer enough. He managed the slightest of nods anyway, throat so closed he couldn't have spoken even if he had words.

There were no words without her. None that held meaning, anyway.

Reaching down, she hugged him like she had done when he was a child. He clung to her, seeking comfort.

"Have you told Alexis?" she asked as she held him. He shook his head. He hadn't been able to find the words to tell his mother directly. There was no way he would be able to tell his daughter. Martha seemed to read his mind. "I'm meeting her for coffee this afternoon, to say good bye. Would you like me to break it to her?"

He pulled away, sat up slightly, using the heels of his hands to wipe away the remnant of his tears, squaring his shoulders. It was one thing to break down in front of his mother, but he needed to be strong for Alexis. "I should tell her," he said. "It's not fair on either of you to have that conversation when it's the last time you'll see each other for two months."

"I can always cancel the cruise, Richard. I don't have to go if you need me here-" she began, but he cut her off.

"I'll be fine, Mother. I promise. I'll tell Alexis next time I talk to her. Florida awaits you, and Costa Rica her. Neither of you needs to stay home to babysit me. It's probably better if you don't," he forced a smile, but it didn't come anywhere near reaching his eyes.

Martha sighed, not fooled for a second, but knowing better than to argue with her occasionally obtuse son. "All right. But promise me you're not going to do anything stupid while we're gone. No trips to Vegas, and go easy on the booze and the blondes," she instructed him firmly.

He snorted in derision, both at the thought of entertaining anyone else in his bed and at the idea of his mother of all people lecturing him about using those vices to combat heartbreak. He looked her square in the eye, unflinching steel in spite of the depth of his hurt. "Trust me, Mother. None of those things will be an issue." He sighed and looked away. "Not this time."

"I'm serious, Richard. If you need me to stay home, I can," she said, but he shook his head resolutely.

"You've been looking forward to this trip for months. It's only three weeks, and Alexis doesn't leave for two, so there will only be a week where..." his voice faltered briefly, but but he swallowed and kept going, "where I'll be alone. Maybe I'll go out to the Hamptons," he finished with false bravado.

She frowned. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure. Give my love to Alexis," he said. She sighed, standing, and bent to kiss the crown of his head.

"You'll get through this, kiddo," she squeezed his shoulder and departed, closing his bedroom door behind her.

He sat and stared at the door for several long moments.

"I'm not sure I want to," he said out loud.

* * *

The second day was much like the first. He found one of her shirts, stuffed her pillow inside of it, and hugged it to himself. It was pathetic, he knew, but no one was around to know, and he... well, he needed her. And this was the only part of her he had left.

And his memories. He had lots of those.

He played them again and again in his mind, every one of more than a hundred murders, every look and every touch, every bicker, every time she had silenced him. More recent memories flooded in, taunting him with love and laughter and tastes and smells of the two of them intertwined.

The best memories of his life, save memories of Alexis.

So he stayed in bed, with the blinds drawn, curled into her pillow with his nose buried in her shirt.

At one point, Martha came in to bid him farewell, casting more than one worried glance at him before she and her copious baggage left for Florida and a cruise, leaving him truly alone with his thoughts.

He wondered how she was doing. She had probably compartmentalized, pushed it to the back of her mind so she could focus on whatever murder it was that she had been dealt that day.

He ached for her. There was no other way to describe it. He ached for her to his very bones. He missed her like a phantom limb- she truly had been so much a piece of him. His heart.

* * *

On the third day, he rose again.

It was the doorbell that pulled him from his bed.

He hadn't changed out of the sweatpants and t-shirt he'd thrown on two nights earlier. Hadn't showered, hadn't shaved.

He noticed for the first time as he dragged his bathrobe on over his sweats that he was beginning to smell pretty bad, but there wasn't enough time to deal to that situation judging by the urgency with which the doorbell was being rung.

Stumbling out of the room, he skidded to a stop before the door, ran his fingers through his hair in the vain hope that it would improve it enough that the rest of his unkempt appearance would go unnoticed. He yanked the door open eagerly, hoping against hope that maybe, maybe, it might be her.

It wasn't.

Lanie's entire demeanor softened when she took in his haggard appearance.

"Oh, Castle. This bad, sweetie?" she asked gently. He grimaced in response, opened the door a little wider for her to come in.

She entered like she owned the place- this was Lanie Parish, after all- and placed the box she was carrying on the kitchen counter top.

He followed her because she was there. She was the first human contact he'd had since...

"When was the last time you ate? ...Or had a shower?" she added as he came nearer.

He shrugged. "I had an early dinner." His voice was raspy from lack of use.

"Early dinner? Today?" she pressed. He dropped his head, moved into the kitchen so he could lean on the counter, too weary to hold himself up.

His stomach made a gurgling noise.

"Castle, it's four thirty in the afternoon. You need to eat more than once a day," she lectured gently, hand on hip.

He raised his head, looked her in the eye, laying everything bare- his hurt, the depths of his grief. "Why?" he asked simply.

Her eyes shone suspiciously. "I'm gonna smack the pair of you," she murmured to herself, before straightening her shoulders, looking at him with compassion. "I brought you some of your things. Would it be ok for me to collect hers?"

Everything- all of the remaining light and life and vitality and Castle-ness within him drained away in that instant. His knees buckled, and it was all he could do to keep himself from winding up sprawled across the kitchen floor. All hope of seeing her again, of mending things, of the happily ever after he had constructed so carefully in his mind, all of it went up in smoke with her words.

She waited for him to recover. "Room's through here?" she asked him, nodding to his office. He nodded dumbly, followed after her at her gesture because he had nothing else to do, and collapsing in sobs on his kitchen floor wasn't an option with Lanie in the loft, gathering up everything left of Kate Beckett.

At the threshold to his room, she paused. He moved around her to the walk in closet, tugging on the bedspread as he walked past to hide the pillow with Kate's shirt on it. If Lanie noticed, she didn't say anything.

He indicated the section that had become hers. Coats, dresses, shoes (and more shoes), work clothes and casual were all stowed away neatly on hangers or shelves. There were a couple of large duffel bags there, too, that she had used to bring things over a bit at a time. Lanie got to work packing, felt him hovering somewhere behind her, but there was no conversation as she worked.

When she turned, a duffel bag in each hand, she found him watching her, gripping a photo frame in his hands.

"This is hers, too," he said gruffly.

"Castle, are you sure about this?" she asked, looking at the picture from Kate's side of the bed. It would always be hers, even if she wasn't sleeping in it.

"I want her to have it. To- remember," his voice cracked a little at the end there.

She nodded, bent down to tuck the picture frame into one of the bags, before turning to go.

"Lanie?" he called after her in desperation as she crossed his study. She turned, looked at him. "How's she doing?" he asked, unable to stop himself.

That compassion was back in the M.E.'s eyes. Maybe it had never left. "She's hurting, Castle. She's hurting real bad. As bad as you, I imagine," she added, eyes sweeping over his dishevelment.

He nodded, dropped his eyes. She stepped towards him.

"Castle, I'm not going to give you any false hope in this. We both know who we're dealing with here. But you need to snap out of this, for your daughter if nothing else. Have you even told Alexis?" he shook his head, and she sighed. "I thought not. Look, I'm not telling you to move on or do anything you don't feel you can do, but try to do something, ok? Have a shower. Get dressed. Try writing something. It doesn't have to be Nikki. It doesn't have to be anything. Just start working through this. Try to figure out who you are without Kate," she said, dropping the two bags to give him a hug, bad smell or no bad smell.

He clung to her like a lost little boy.

"Tell her... tell her I'm here? That I would give anything..." his words ended in a hiccup, and she patted him gently on the back before releasing him.

"I will. But you know Kate, Castle."

He sighed, and nodded. "Thanks, Lanie. And tell the boys that they're welcome any time, unless its weird for them to try to be friends with both of us- in which case I understand."

She smiled. "I will. And I might invite myself over one night when that girl of yours in home from College. I haven't seen her in far too long."

He nodded, even managed to lift the corners of his mouth into something that could resemble a smile as she picked up the bags and headed for the door.

"You'll make it through this, Castle. I promise," she assured him softly, letting herself out.

* * *

He took a shower.

Shaved.

Re-made the bed. Kept Kate's shirt-covered pillow right where it was, though.

Forced himself to have a sandwich. It was dry and tasteless, sat heavily in his stomach. He had a glass of juice, too, figuring sugar probably wasn't such a bad idea considering how long he was going between meals just now.

On the way back to his room, he paused by the television. Maybe drowning out his thoughts with mindless babble wasn't such a bad idea. Flipping through the options, his breath caught when he saw Nebula 9 nestled between a few other choices.

His heart twisted painfully in his chest as he recalled that case, her playfulness.

He pressed play.

* * *

Day four began much like the last three, only on on the sofa and with the Nebula 9 disc menu playing on repeat, Captain Max's voice on loop every minute or so over the theme music, blessing Castle with fortune to guide his journey.

He groaned and rolled over, stretching the muscles in his neck and shoulder that were objecting to sleeping in such an unusual position, before digging around for the remote between the cushions. With a touch of a button, Captain Max's smarmy smile disappeared.

Castle dropped the remote on the floor, sitting up slowly. His stomach gurgled, and he had a pounding headache. Idly, he wondered if that was from his current emotional state, or if it was caffeine withdrawal- he hadn't had a cup of coffee since everything went to pieces. The thought of drinking it without her being here, without making hers as yet another way to say "good morning" and "I love you" made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. He took a deep, calming breath to settle the nausea.

Running his fingers through his hair, he groaned and stretched, carefully working the stiff muscles in his neck that were loudly complaining about spending the night on the sofa.

He sat there for several minutes, staring blankly at the staircase picture above his desk as if it held the answers to all of life's questions, almost enjoying the discomfort his body was in. It was sick and demented and not him at all, but a small corner of him relished the headache and the stiff muscles and the nausea. At least he was feeling something other than the numbing darkness that had been clouding his brain since it happened.

Finally he stood, stretching his back, and shuffled to the bathroom. Lanie was right. He had to start working through this, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

He used the facilities. Brushed his teeth. Showered. Shaved. Got dressed. Shuffled out to the kitchen. Forced down a piece of toast and a glass of juice.

He glanced around the kitchen. The place was in a bit of a mess. The housekeeper wasn't able to come in this week- her daughter had just had a baby- and normally he would have been careful to keep the loft to a certain standard anyway. He had always found tidy, open spaces helped his creativity to flow- it was one of the things that had attracted him to this place when he had been looking for a home of his own.

Shrugging his shoulders- not that there was anyone around to see the gesture; still, it was relieving to do- he began stacking and rinsing so he could load the dishwasher. He then set about wiping down the counter and stove top.

Moving through the loft, he straightened throw rugs and couch cushions, replaced books on shelves, cleared away rubbish. A couple of business letters were sitting on the coffee table from the day he had opened them- almost a week ago now- so he picked them up and took them into his study, sitting at his desk to file them away.

He was about to stand when he noticed his laptop sitting on his desk, front and center. Hesitating, he stared at it for a long moment.

_Try writing something_, Lanie had said.

_It doesn't have to be Nikki_, Lanie had said.

_It doesn't have to be anything_.

Could he write? She was his muse, and he didn't have her any more. What if his words were gone with her?

He closed his eyes, effortlessly conjured up her smile.

Yes.

He could do this.

Turning on the laptop, he drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited for it to load. Creating a new document straight to his desktop, he named it simply "Dear Kate". He made a mental note to file it away properly later, but for now, he was suddenly eager to write.

* * *

Dear Kate,

I love you.

I know you've heard me say it. I know you've said it back to me. It's such a simple phrase, and it gets tossed around so much that sometimes I wonder if it has somehow lost its magic. Not that we've really used it between us all that often. For the most part, we've saved it for life and death situations. We've had other ways of expressing it. Looks and touches and coffee and novels and always. I want you to hear me when I say it this time, though, so I'm going to keep on saying it. I want to say it every single day for the rest of my life.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

I love you so much that these past few days without you has felt like I haven't been able to breathe properly. There's something wrong with the air. You aren't in the atmosphere. I can't feel you near me. I need you to be near me. I love you.

I want you to know how much this past year has meant to me. I've been playing it over in my mind- right from the moment you knocked on my door, soaked to the skin, claiming my mouth and my heart, telling me you just want me. I remember that I didn't believe you at first. I didn't want to. I was still so angry at you, still wasn't sure that you hadn't lied about remembering because you didn't feel the same way. And then you kissed me, again and again, and I didn't know what to do. Then I looked into your eyes and saw that you meant it, that you were finally in this with me. Kate, that night- and every night that I've shared with you since then- was the best night of my life.

I remember what you taste like.

It trips over my tongue. Warms me up, sets my blood on fire. And your scent- I dread the day my sheets no longer carry the smell of you. It's home to me. You're home to me. Without you, I'm drifting.

I'm so scared, Kate. The idea of a future without you is beyond my comprehension. You wanted to talk about our future? Fine. Let's talk about our future. Do you know why I didn't have an answer for you, Kate? It was because I was scared. I still am. I'm petrified. I know what I want, but the idea of telling you freezes me up, makes my palms sweat and my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

I want to marry you, Kate.

I don't want a big or flashy wedding- just our closest friends and family on the beach at the Hamptons or in the woods at your father's cabin. You've taught me that small and intimate can be bigger and more real than grandiose and expensive, and I want our wedding to reflect that. It's who we are. It's who you've made me. I want you in a white dress on your father's arm. I want Ryan and Esposito to bicker about who gets to be best man, and make bets on which of us will cry first. I will, I know it. Seeing you come down the aisle towards me- wherever we do it- that's my dream, Kate.

I want to have children with you.

Stubborn, smart, beautiful children with all my mischief and all your independence, who will turn our hearts inside out and our lives upside down. I love kids, but after Meredith left, I swore I wouldn't have anymore unless I have someone- the right person- beside me. You're that person, Kate. You're the right person. You will be a terrific mom one day. You're amazing at everything you touch, and you have so much empathy and love. You have grace and wisdom and integrity, and I just know that you would pass on all of that to ours kids.

The idea of you being pregnant- the vision that rises before my eyes of your stomach swollen with my child, of you guiding my hand to your skin to feel a tiny foot press against me from within you- Kate, it leaves me breathless. It is the most arousing, intoxicating thought that has ever entered my head. You'd be so beautiful. Not to mention incredibly hot.

Then I get brought down to earth with a thump. We aren't even together any more. Even when we were, marriage and children were never discussed. I told you I'd wait for you to be on the same page as me. I thought we were enjoying being together. I know how scared you get of commitment, how you always keep one foot out the door of your relationships. I had hoped that I was different.

Yet, the moment we hit a bump, you ran.

Why, Kate? Were you really so miserable with me? So bored? Did I really treat you so badly? I thought the point of diving in together was that when things get tough, we'd fight through, side by side. I know you, Kate. You aren't fickle. You get scared sometimes. That's why I didn't want to tell you where I thought we were going. I knew it would scare you, overwhelm you, and that would make you want to run.

You ran anyway, and I feel like I don't really know why.

You said I had been pulling away since Alexis was kidnapped. Maybe that's true, but if it is, it wasn't intentional. Maybe I just needed you to fight for me a little, the way I've always fought for you. Not that I'm blaming you. Maybe I am. I don't even know any more. I do know that Paris was my worst nightmare, but Kate, losing you was my other nightmare. You and Alexis- the two of you are my world. Paris- more specifically, the one-on-one time I spent with Douglas Stevens before I even left- it changed me. I didn't know I had that in me. All I know is that I would give my life to keep my family safe. Alexis and Mother, yes, but you, too. Why else would I come back to you while you were standing on that bomb?

I can't live without you, Kate. I can function. I can get up in the morning and go to bed at night, eat, sleep, interact with people, pay my taxes. I can pretend to live. I can smile for Alexis. But that spark that comes with truly feeling alive? It doesn't exist without you. I love you, Kate.

I'll probably never send this to you. You'll probably never read it, but I needed to get it out of me. It was festering inside, and I needed to expunge it. I'll probably keep adding to this, though, as if I really was saying it to you or sending it to you. Maybe I hope I'll have the courage to send it one day. Even if we never come together again, I would love one final chance to explain. To lay my cards on the table.

In the meantime, I hope that in spite of everything, you know that I love you. I love you, Kate. Kate, I love you. You, Kate. I love you. You need to know that. Surely you know it. Maybe you never grasped how deeply it runs within me, maybe I never found a way to communicate it so you would understand- God knows we've had more than our fair share of miscommunications, that we've always struggled to say out loud the things we hold dearest to our hearts- but there's nothing holding me back any more. So, one more time, without subtext, without agenda, the plain and simple truth is this:

I love you. Always.

* * *

_Thoughts?_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I have no excuse, dear readers, other than personal struggles in real life. Thank you so much for your patience, your kindness, and for nudging me on in spite of my absence. Please know that I never forgot this story, and still have every intention of finishing it. I know where it's going. There is a plan. It just may not happen before the end of the hiatus, for which I am sorry. Thank you for continuing on this journey with me.**

**Special mention must go to BlueOrchid96 for her continued love, support, care, and snuggling- she blesses me every single day; and also to honeyandvodka for just being awesome and generous with her time.**

* * *

It would be a lie to say that he felt better once he stopped writing. He didn't. Not better. Maybe a little lighter, though. Maybe his thoughts weren't swirling quite to the same degree, maybe the clamor inside his head had abated at least slightly.

Leaning back in his desk chair, he stretched, glanced around the room. He really hadn't been writing for very long. An hour, maybe, at the most? He could keep going, he supposed- there wasn't much else to do- but he was feeling suddenly restless.

Cooped up.

He hadn't left the loft since it had happened.

He hadn't wanted to.

He was filled suddenly with a burning desire to get out of there. The walls seemed to lean in on him, and the air tasted stuffy.

Only there was nowhere to go.

_What would Kate do?_ The thought came unbidden, but he didn't try to push it away. She and Alexis had long since been the voices of reason inside his head. He lolled his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and embraced the thoughts of her.

Some of his most treasured memories involved some of their long, lazy days, simply spending time together. They would lie in bed til midday, trading kisses, doing the crossword together, making love languidly and thoroughly. He would often spend a portion of the afternoon writing- he always felt inspired on those days- and she would pluck a book from his shelves and curl up on the sofa in the study, both of them loving being able to simply be, together. No words needed- no interaction at all, save from the occasional glance across the room to savor the other's presence.

Inevitably, though, she would stand and stretch, mark the place in her book and take it to her nightstand if she liked it, or replace it on the shelf if she deemed it unworthy of pursuit. Kate Beckett was remarkable, extraordinary. Not just an active mind, but an active person. A do-er. While these long, lazy days appealed to Castle- he would lock them in the loft forever if he could, away from the prying eyes of the outside world- there always came a point some time in the late afternoon where Kate needed to _do_ something. So she would rise and stretch, rid herself of whatever she was reading, change into her workout clothes. She always wore sneakers, a tank top, an NYPD hoody, and the most distracting, sexy little shorts in the world. She knew that he loved to peel those shorts off her, skimming his fingers down her endless legs- and she knew exactly what she was doing when she would come out and drape her arm around his shoulders, press her lips to his temple or along his jaw, and then escape with a laugh as he came out of his word-induced reverie just a moment too late to snare her. If he was lucky, his fingertips would manage to brush the soft cotton of her sweater, the silk of her thigh where it peeked out from under those miniscule shorts.

She would normally be gone for about an hour, returning sweaty, happy, and sexy. Sweaty Kate was one of his favorite versions of her, so even though she complained that she was gross and smelly and he couldn't possibly find her attractive right now- the thought that often produced an inelegant, derisive snort from him- he would abandon his writing when he heard her return, pin her against the bedroom door and "help" her change out of her exercise clothes- more often than not joining her in the shower, too.

He missed Sweaty Kate. Hell, he missed Kate, period.

Pushing back from his desk chair, he headed into his bedroom and changed into shorts and an old t-shirt. A run would do him good, and maybe, just maybe, it would make him feel closer to her.

Maybe he could outrun the feeling of despair that came over him when he remembered that Kate Beckett was no longer part of his life.

Slipping his phone, his keys, and a couple of twenties into his pocket- he made it a rule to never go anywhere without cab fare, even if he wasn't planning on taking a cab- he locked the door and headed down to the lobby, lying boldly through his teeth when his doorman asked how he was doing. He then headed out, springing into an easy jog.

He hadn't always been one for fitness. He'd been blessed with a relatively healthy physique, so keeping in shape hadn't really been an issue for a long time. Working with the Twelfth had encouraged him to work a little harder at it, so that he could keep up with the Detective he shadowed, but a couple of their rougher patches had sent him into a spiral of moping and eating his sorrow. Like the summer she was shot, and then didn't call him for three months. After he'd been kicked out of the precinct, he hadn't wanted to go anywhere, do anything. He had wanted to be available, just in case she called.

She never did.

Even though she had said she would.

And this time, he had no such promise to cling to.

They were just... over.

His lungs began to burn, but he pushed himself onwards, dodging his fellow pedestrians, weaving expertly down the sidewalk without really paying attention to any of it. His muscles cried out at the onslaught, but he pushed through it, relishing the sensation. Even though he felt like he couldn't breathe, he kept going, sinking his mind into the steady rhythm of his steps.

It was as if he was trying to outrun the past four days.

Eventually, though, he couldn't maintain it, and he settled back into a walk. Sweat poured off him in the city heat, and the thought occurred to him that he must look like a disheveled wreck.

He swatted the thought away.

Another change Kate Beckett had made to his life- without her in it, his physical appearance simply ceased to be of any importance.

He began to simply wander, focusing his thoughts on nothing more than the feel of the sun on his skin, the smells and atmosphere of Manhattan. He didn't want to forget her, it was nice to be out and away from his bubble of misery.

* * *

Suddenly he glanced up and realized his surroundings were awfully familiar.

Terribly, awfully familiar.

Almost as familiar as his own block. After all, this had been his second home for the past year.

He moved along the pavement slowly, unwillingly- yet, as always, drawn along by some magnetic force that he was powerless to resist, until he stumbled to a stop directly opposite her building.

Lifting his eyes, he easily spotted her window. It wasn't the first time he'd glanced up at her building and tried to determine if she was home.

She wouldn't be there. Not today. She'd be at the precinct, running down leads if some poor schmuck's life had been cut short prematurely, or trying to ignore the boys' shenanigans while pushing through her paper work if there wasn't a case.

He wondered if she missed him.

He wondered if she ever glanced up at his chair to say something to him, only to be reminded that he wasn't there anymore.

Did she still think of him every time she refilled her coffee mug? Did she blink back tears when she found one of the suggestive post-it notes he delighted in hiding in amongst her stationary to make her laugh and glare at him simultaneously? Did her heart squeeze in her chest with every breath, because with every breath came a reminder of everything they had shared?

His arms ached. Not from exercise. Not from the brutal pounding he had subjected himself to. His arms ached- actually physically _ached_- to hold her one more time. He yearned to wrap himself around her slender frame, to feel her strength and her vulnerability. To show her without words just how deeply he loved her, because bestselling author or not, he simply didn't have vocabulary enough. There were no words in any language with the power or strength to describe the magnitude of his feelings.

Yet when he had needed most to be able to formulate them, his words had failed him.

She thought he didn't care. That he wasn't in for the long haul.

With a dejected sigh, he turned away, forcing himself to not look back.

Once he got around the corner, he broke out into a jog again.

* * *

"Dad?"

Castle jumped as the door to the loft banged shut unexpectedly at the same time as Alexis' voice rang out.

The sound of heeled boots rapidly crossing the hardwood floor was all the warning he got before his favorite redhead poked her head around the study door.

He slammed the lid of his laptop down and plastered a smile on his face. He must have looked either guilty or a little too maniacal, because she raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips as she fully entered the room, looking more like a disapproving parent than a child home from college.

"What's going on?" she asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," he assured her. "Just writing. You surprised me- I wasn't expecting you until the weekend."

She looked at him for a moment, assessing the veracity of his words, before dropping her stern demeanor and coming around the desk to loop her arms around him, kissing his cheek in greeting. "I just handed in the bigger of the two assignments due this week, and I thought I'd reward myself with a study break before plunging into the other one. Do you want to play laser tag?" she asked a little too sweetly.

He leaned away, holding her at arms length for a long moment. "All right, what did you Grandmother say?"

Her eyes were a round, guileless blue. The corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly. "Nothing!" she insisted, but he knew her tells too well. He raised an eyebrow, waited. She sighed, caving. "All right, she might have suggested you'd appreciate me stopping by this week if I was free, ok? She didn't say why. But she was being all cagey, in a you-need-cheering-up-but-she-promised-not-to-tell kind of way. Dad, what's going on?"

He sighed, shook his head. Standing, he looped his arm around his daughter's shoulders and guided them out of the study and towards the kitchen. "Hot chocolate?" he asked, completely avoiding both her question and her gaze.

Alexis stopped short.

"That bad? Tell me, Dad!"

He moved ahead of her into the kitchen, pulling down two large mugs, and set about preparing their super secret family recipe hot chocolate. She watched his movements, growing more concerned the longer he was silent. Eventually, she slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar.

He sighed, leaning against the counter, and looked at her, allowing the grief at recent events to finally show on his face.

"Daddy?" she asked in a small voice.

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Kate and I broke up," he croaked out.

She leaped down from the stool and rounded the counter, flinging her arms around him. "What happened? Why?" she questioned as she hugged him. Her voice took on a hard edge. "What did she do?"

He pulled away, running a hand over her fiery hair affectionately to soften his stern tone. "It wasn't her fault, Alexis. This one's on me." He turned away to continue preparing their drinks. "I brought it on myself," he mumbled.

She waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't continue, she moved back around to the stool. "What did you do, then?" she asked.

He sighed heavily. "Nothing."

"Da-ad," she drew it out like she used to when she was smaller and he was being silly. He finished the hot chocolates, sliding one mug towards her, meeting her eyes guiltily.

"It's the literal truth," he said. "She asked me where we were going. If we were ready to move forward. And I did nothing."

"Why? You know where you want you and Kate to go. Did you change your mind?" she cradled the hot chocolate in her hands, blowing on the surface to cool in a little before sipping tentatively.

He shook his head, looked away, ashamed. "I froze, Alexis. I was going to tell her- everything. That I'd already talked to you and asked her Dad's permission and- I froze."

She stared at him, perplexed. "But- you've had it all planned out. You were going to ask her. You really said nothing?"

He bowed his head, crumbling under his daughter's disappointment. "If I'd answered her honestly, it would have been too much. She'd run. It's why I said 'someday' when I asked you. I just... I just wanted to make her happy. In the end that wasn't enough."

The last was said so low it barely reached her, but she still heard.

"Have you contacted her since then?" Alexis asked quietly.

His eyes were dull when he raised them to meet hers. "What's the point? We broke up, Alexis. It's done."

Alexis frowned. "You've been shadowing Detective Beckett for five years, Dad. Even when things haven't been great between you, you always went back. Every time, no matter what either of you did. Why are you giving this up without a fight?"

He recoiled as if he'd been struck. "I fought, Alexis. I stayed. I've been staying for five years. It's all I've done."

"Staying is staying, Dad. It's stagnant. It isn't fighting for your relationship. And this time you didn't do either," her tone was gentle, in spite of her words.

"What am I meant to do? Go back and beg? You know what Kate's like once her mind is made up." He ran a hand through his hair.

"Yes, Dad. Go back and beg. Tell her where you see your relationship going. Be brave." She leaned forward across the breakfast bar in her earnestness, but he shook his head.

"It's too late. The damage is done. She wanted to know I was serious- that I had thought about where we were going- and I was trying so hard not to scare her off that I lost her."

"But you're not even trying! What's wrong with going to talk to her? Can't you just say you're sorry?" she questioned.

"It isn't that simple. She needed an answer then. Not now. So when I froze, all I did was communicate that I'm not ready. Me going back and begging for her won't do anything to change her mind. All it'll do is communicate how not ready for real commitment I am- it'll look like it's a knee jerk reaction. No, I need to give her space for now, because she asked for it, and then some how, some way find a way to prove to her that I'm serious about my future with her."

Alexis watched him with blue eyes full of pity and no small measure of disappointment. He looked away, unable to handle seeing his little girl looking at him like that.

"So that's it, then?" she asked sadly.

"Guess so," he replied.

They sipped their hot chocolates silently after that, since there wasn't really anything left to say. When Alexis drained the remnants of her mug, she moved around the breakfast bar to embrace him again.

"I may not always agree with what you do, Dad, but I love you no matter what," she told him. He almost smiled.

"Remind me which of us is the parent here again?" he joked as they finally parted.

She sighed a big sigh. "I ask myself that every day," she said with a cheeky twinkle. He looped an arm around her, ruffling her hair with his other hand. She shrieked and squirmed, but he didn't let her go until he had pulled her in for another hug, planting a kiss on her forehead.

"I love you, Pumpkin," he said.

"I love you, too, Dad," she replied.

* * *

Alexis had stayed to watch a movie with him before heading back to her dorm, indulging him with ice cream straight from the tub and popcorn aplenty.

It was a great distraction while it lasted. He had never been able to be completely miserable when his baby girl was there.

When she left, though, the loft felt doubly empty.

He roamed from room to room for a while, searching for a distraction and finding none. There was nothing to fill the yawning void in his life.

He played over his conversation with Alexis in his mind again and again, listening to her arguments, rolling them around his consciousness, listening to his own responses, weighing them both in the light of the truth of the situation as he understood it.

It was no use though.

The truth was, if he went crawling back to Kate now, anything he said would be too little, too late.

He perched on the foot of the guest room bed, remembering the days she had stayed in this room after her apartment blew up.

He had never told her, but that case was dear to his heart in spite of the terror of Kate being targeted because of his books. In that one heart stopping, terror inducing moment when he had witnessed her apartment go up in flames, he had known without a doubt for the first time that he was totally and irrevocably in love with Kate Beckett.

Totally and irrevocably.

In spite of Gina and Demming and Dr. Motorcycle Boy. In spite of freezers and lies and secrets and snipers. In spite of lies and misunderstandings.

In spite of every obstacle placed before them, they had finally won. They had been together.

And now it was over, and he only had his own stupidity to thank.

He groaned, flopping back on the bed, throwing an arm over his face.

Rehashing his stupidity wasn't going to help anything.

Kate was gone.

Time to rehash his life plan.

Pushing himself up off the bed, he headed down to his study and pulled up a blank word document.

* * *

RICHARD CASTLE'S NEW LIFE PLAN: POST BECKETT

-Write every day. Get back to basics, and just practice writing what's in my mind and putting it on the page.

-Meet every deadline for the next book. Warning: this could cause Gina to have some kind of medical emergency, which, of course, could very well make the whole thing worthwhile.

-Give Nikki a happy ending. She's made me a better writer. She deserves that much, at least. Besides, she's one character I want to always have the possibility of writing again.

-Be grateful for what I have, instead of dwelling on what I've lost. Make more time for doing cool things with Alexis now she's old enough to enjoy them.

-Get in shape. I ate- or worse, drank- my way out of every break up I've ever been through, but this one deserves more.

-Continue to grow into being the better version of me I never knew existed until Kate came into my life. I refuse to let our time together be meaningless.

-Never forget, but never grow bitter. We both deserve more than that.

-Be more. Be the man she deserves, even if I never get her back.

* * *

He stared at the cursor blinking in front of him. It wasn't a long list, he knew that, but its construction had taken a while.

He had wanted to give it the respect it deserved by truly considering every item. This was no flippant, playful bucket list.

He had also needed to step away to blow his nose a couple of times, as evidence of his ruminations caused unpleasant leaking from certain facial orifices.

His chest still felt tight. The cold fist of grief was still there. But in spite of that, he felt hopeful for the first time.

He had a plan.

He was going to prove he had been worthy of her.

Even if he never again had the chance to prove it to her.

A wave of weariness washed over him. He had no idea what time it was.

It had been a full day, really, between writing and running and the time he had spent with Alexis.

Pushing away from his desk, he headed into his room, going about his nightly routine. Part of being more meant keeping up his standards, and that included his hygiene. He needed to keep to the level he would strive for as if she were actually here.

For the first time since he and Kate broke up, he set his alarm clock.

* * *

The next few days trickled by in much the same pattern.

His alarm would wake him from torturous dreams of them entwined together, jarring him into the reality of an empty bed. It always took him a moment to get out of bed as he savored the memories of her taste, her touch from his dreams.

He would then force himself out of bed, have a glass of water and get ready for a run. Before long, he'd be out pounding the pavement, putting his grief to good use, powering his body into action. Strangely he found the physicality of running briefly lessened the hurt in his heart, clearing his head of the sadness that overwhelmed him.

More often than not, he would find himself in her neighborhood, on her street, standing beneath her apartment building. Once, he even saw her car parked out on the street. He didn't stop that day.

Some days he would. He would stand beneath her building, staring up at her windows, and wonder what would happen if he went up there. What he would say. What she would say. Whether she would even open the door to him. Whether she missed him with the same gut wrenching, soul destroying ache that he missed her.

He knew he probably looked like some kind of crazy stalker, staring up at her windows, but he honestly didn't care. His heart called for her.

Sooner or later, though, it would be time to move on. It was always so difficult to pull himself away, to turn his steps towards the loft.

His feet always felt like concrete blocks on the way back.

He still ran, though, as much as he could. He was surprised by how out of shape he'd let himself become, but after a few days he found he could push himself further and further, only stopping when oxygen became absolutely necessary to not passing out.

By the time he reached the loft, he was soaked in perspiration and his muscles ached, but he at least had a sense of accomplishment as he leaned against the cool wall of the elevator as he ascended to his loft. Once inside, it was into the shower, the lukewarm spray cooling his skin and leaving him feeling refreshed from the city's heat.

Then it was writing time. While his brain was still fresh, he devoted his time to mapping out the next Nikki Heat. It was his favorite part of the writing experience, figuring out the twists and turns of the case and where and how keys pieces of evidence were to be revealed. He steered clear of Nikki and Rook's personal drama for now- it was too raw, although he knew he would need to have it figured out by the time he pitched his outline to Black Pawn.

Sooner or later, though, his mind would shift from Nikki back to her real life inspiration, and he would close his fake murder board and open his laptop. If he was being completely honest with himself, this was the part of the day he most looked forward to.

It was when he got to write to Kate.

She was never going to read them, he knew that, but he just... he needed Kate Beckett in his life in some small way.

He knew it was pathetic, but he just didn't care.

He wrote about anything, everything. Boring, mundane things, thoughts that had struck him that he missed sharing with her. Sometimes the letters became confessional, allowing him a place to express long buried hurts that he didn't feel he could tell anyone.

He stored them all carefully in his "Dear Kate" folder- it was a folder now, not merely a document- and carefully timed and dated them. He had read once that the more specific one could be about documenting when a journal entry was written, the more useful it would be should one choose to go back and assess one's growth.

He felt purged once he had written to her. It was a strange sensation, like his mind was washed clean and ready to start again. His thoughts would finally be quiet enough for him to deal with life. It was during this time that he would make dinner or call Alexis or deal with business matters that he had, in the past, neglected with joyous abandon. But this was part of his new resolve- to be better, to be more.

For her.

He could never deny that it was all for her- every ounce of energy it took not to wallow in his grief. She wanted to know he was serious, that he knew what he wanted for them? Fine. He would show her. His words had failed him at the critical moment, but Kate Beckett was a woman of action, and should their paths ever cross again- and he prayed they did- he wanted to be able to prove to her that he was worthy of her after all.

Assuming she hadn't been snapped up by someone else by then.

God knows she should be. She deserved more than him. He'd known that from the start. But his foolish hope had persevered and eventually, through hard work and dedication and continuing to simply be there, he had won her over for a time.

The thought of her moving on to someone else twisted his gut, made his stomach churn, sent him careening into the depths of despair.

Yet the image of her being alone forever brought him no satisfaction, either. Kate Beckett had such a capacity for love, for joy- he knew he had barely scratched the surface, that it went even deeper than he could possibly imagine.

He wanted her to be happy.

He wanted her to have a full, rich life. To have everything she could possibly desire, and more.

He wanted to be the one to give her that. Since that was now out of the question, and though it hurt more than he had words to describe, he still want that for her- with someone else, if that was what needed to happen.

He could learn to be satisfied if he knew she had found true happiness.

He loved her enough to let her go.

* * *

Night times were the hardest.

His mind purged, and with the comfortable knowledge of a good day of getting things done, he would go through his evening routine and settle into bed uncharacteristically early. Those runs made the early bedtime a necessity.

He would read until he couldn't possibly keep his eyes open any longer- all kinds of books, everything he felt he'd missed over the past five years while his attention was otherwise occupied- but even so, the moment the lights were out and his eyes were closed, that was when she would be there, painted vividly on his mind's eye.

It was sweet torture. He was devastated and broken by her absence beside him, by his mind's insistence at conjuring her image- yet he simultaneously ached for every memory, every scrap of her he could hold onto.

He knew it was messed up, but he just... missed her.

In spite of his tiredness, it would take him forever to fall asleep, his mind too full of her to allow him to fall into slumber.

But then, when he finally did, he would dream of her once again. Of them. The glide of her skin over his, the mewling noise she swore she didn't make in the throes of passion, the feel of her wet for him, clamped around him, drawing out their pleasure or playfully teasing him or being focused and determined as she rode him to completion. The way she was all pliant and adorable and just a little bit dopey afterwards, cuddling into him.

* * *

When the weekend finally arrived, and Alexis was finished with finals and assignments for the semester, he threw himself into planning his tiny amount of time with her to maximum impact, trying to fit as many of their traditional summer activities into their scant few days as possible.

She seemed to understand his need to make the most of their time. To be honest, part of her was thankful for a chance to do some of the activities she had honestly wondered if she would wind up missing out on this year, so when she wasn't farewelling friends and seeing to last minute details of her trip, she spent her last days at the loft. She went out of her way to fall in with any scheme her father devised, whether it be laser tag or fencing or sightseeing or creating blanket forts or inedible deserts.

If she was relieved to have her father to herself without him being distracted by his girlfriend's presence or him dashing off to the precinct for "work", she was wise enough to keep it to herself. All he knew was that he was incredibly thankful for his baby girl, and no matter what it cost him to put on a front of happiness for her that neither of them believed, it was worth it to get some real, quality time with the precious young lady his daughter had grown into.

* * *

All good things come to an end, though, and it was a miserable drive back from the airport at an abysmally early hour of the morning that saw him reentering the silent loft.

It was an oppressive quiet.

His daughter was gone.

His mother was gone.

He was cut off from his friends.

His love was more unattainable than ever.

Truly, he had never been more alone.

He moved into his study with heavy steps, and poured himself two fingers of the hard stuff he had thus far avoided, before slumping into his desk chair.

He stared into the amber liquid, musing that it was closer to 5am than 5pm, but at least it was five o'clock somewhere.

He only took one sip, rolling the burning, harsh flavor across his tongue and throat, before replacing the tumbler on the desk in front of him.

He then buried his face in his arms and wept.

And finally, finally, when his head was spinning and his tear ducts were dry, he sat himself up, reached for his computer, and began again to write.

* * *

_Thoughts?_


End file.
